


I Know A Name

by Flatfootmonster



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Even's POV, First Day of School, First Meetings, Hand Jobs, Internal Monologue, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-06-04 16:58:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15151595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flatfootmonster/pseuds/Flatfootmonster
Summary: I keep smiling and it’s my first day of school. People are buzzing around me and I get that feeling that is a constant; I’m never by myself but I’m always alone. I wonder what people would say if I told them that? More crazy talk from Even, probably. Because someone who has bipolar couldn’t possibly have normal issues that, for anyone else, would be taken seriously. Instead everything is just because of the bipolar.





	1. The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always thinking about Even's POV and this has buzzed in my head for a long time. We meet him and see carefree, only finding out later what his past contains. So, it seems obvious he carried a lot of baggage - for a long time - and just hid it very well. I can relate.
> 
> Anyway, I adore him so very much and I wanted to get in his head. I hope you enjoy <3

The routine had helped to a point. It stabilized things—I could regain “normal” function. And I can’t really feel agitated towards those supporting me, I  _ shouldn’t  _ in any case. But it’s hard, when days pass by and you feel that you’re doing certain things at certain times simply to make someone else feel like they are OK—well, that’s not good for me. But who can I tell and not sound like the most ungrateful fucker in the world? I can’t. 

So, it stays inside. Which is no big deal in the grand scheme of things; I have people who are monitoring my behaviour for my own good, I understand that because I scared them. All of them. But I also can’t help but feel—sometimes, at least—that all of this is to stop  _ them  _ being scared again, rather than helping me stay “normal”.

I don’t even think I want to be “normal” anyway—I never have, before or after diagnosis. When I’m feeling good there’s nothing better than that: the elation and the joy, the good I can see around me and in other people, making people laugh and feel happy about themselves. I love that; that’s me, it’s who I am. But I have to be careful, because if I’m  _ me  _ too much I will get looks—from my mum or Sonja or  _ anyone  _ that knows. And I know what they’re thinking: is this an exceptionally good day or is this the prelude to another storm; another episode?

Part of me wants to scream at them for that, frustrated that they don’t know me well enough to know that line. But do I even know myself well enough? All I’ve learnt so far—since my diagnosis—is to rely on people to be healthy. So, if they’re concerned, shouldn’t I be too? Then I end up feeling unqualified to know myself, and that they  _ must  _ know me better.

Do you know what it’s like to think that others know you better than yourself? It’s terrifying, because sometimes I can’t decide if the simplest of acts I’m contemplating is right or not, and that I should confer with someone over my own thoughts or feelings to decide if they are legitimate or  _ healthy _ . It’s a cage, lovingly made by people who want the best for me, but see my disorder before they see me anymore. It hurts and I can’t tell them that. I don’t like to hurt them more than I already have. But this cage seems to be getting smaller and all I want to do is stretch my wings, so sometimes destruction seems the only way to be free. But if I actually say that, what’s going to happen to me? What are they going to think of me? What are they going to do?

And so expectations bring me to another school: a new year, new faces that will see me without knowing what’s happened. For the life of me, I can’t decide if that’s better or worse but I have to trust other people’s judgments before my own because—as I’ve said—I rely on them now. Not even because I want to, but because  _ I’m _ scared. 

I’m scared and no one sees that in me; they see confusion, they see disorder, and they see a mess. They don’t know my fears because I can’t tell them, or if I do they will give me one of those analytical and uncomfortable looks that says I’m being crazy. 

It’s like I’m in the water and people are teaching me to swim, they want me to survive, they are telling me how to tread water and I know they mean well. But  _ I’m  _ the one in this water, not them, and there are things beneath me—they grab at my feet and ankles, trying to pull me down where I can’t breathe. If I try and open my mouth to tell them that there are things down here—things I’m scared of—they will squint at the water and doubt me because they can’t see it. They can’t feel it. They think I’m not focussing on keeping my chin above water and that these new things are all in my head, distractions. So I keep treading water; I keep smiling. 

I keep smiling and it’s my first day of school. People are buzzing around me and I get that feeling that is a constant; I’m never by myself but I’m always alone. I wonder what people would say if I told them that? More crazy talk from Even, probably. Because someone who has bipolar couldn’t possibly have normal issues that, for anyone else, would be taken seriously. Everything is just because of the bipolar. And I admit it’s a part of me, now I know what it is and how it feels, it explains so much; the way I feel and think and act. But it’s not the only thing, it doesn’t precursor my name and most of the time it doesn’t have control of me. But that’s not what they think—it’s not what I think they think, anyway.

And so I won’t tell anyone at school, that was the plan anyway but I wasn’t sure I was going to go along with it just because  _ they _ said so. And it’s not shame, I don’t think it is anyway. It will be easier to wear this mask I’ve made if they don’t associate my actions with the ominous label of depression. And I chose to wear this mask because it’s the only thing I know how to do now, pretending I’m OK all the time for everyone else’s benefit is just something I can’t quite shake.

Now I'm sitting outside because the morning was overwhelming. By and large, everyone seems nice—as nice as people can be within knowing them for a few hours. There's lots of questions, there always is when you're new. They waited for me after class, and they wanted me to join their table and so I did. I want to fit in and I want to make new friends, because I miss my old ones. I wonder what they are doing now without me. Do they miss me? I put that thought on hold because it comes with a lot of baggage, today I’m handling enough of that as it is.

And so there were many questions. I answered as well as I can, and there was room for jokes too; they went down well, I think, judging by the amount of slaps on the back I received. But Jesus, I wish this was all as natural as people perceive it to be of me. They remembered my name, which is in my favour— _ and  _ equally horrific because I can't remember one single name from this morning. 

I sat in the cafeteria and I ate a little—it's hard to do that when you're the focus of conversation and  _ your  _ focus is elsewhere. But when I looked at the clock and there was only ten minutes left of lunch, I decided that I  _ needed _ to breathe and be quiet because my head was about to explode—it still feels like it’s spinning on its axis.

_ Expectations, expectations, expectations. _ They are never-ending. 

And that's why I'm sat outside on my own, leaning against a wall and under a slither of shade. My fingers itch for a cigarette and I'm not sure if it's a genuine craving or my contrary nature rebelling against my confines. Because smoking weed is bad for me, and smoking anything might bring me that closer to giving in. I get it; it's logical but it's just another bar in my cage. I can't tell the difference between protection and restriction and I guess that's probably bad. Or maybe it's normal, who knows anymore? I sure as fuck don't. 

I rest my head back against the bricks and stretch my legs out. There were groups on the benches and I don't want to be cross examined again, not right now. I try and still my brain and keep from making a comparative study between my new school and Bakken. But my brain wants to be busy it seems, so I just close my eyes to the world and hope it calms down before the bell rings, and I'm submerged again in _ new friends _ .

But then I hear something; there's a laugh that comes from somewhere and for whatever reason it intercepts the busy traffic of thoughts in my head, pulling me from my internal whirlwind. Why did it do that? So, of course I need to open my eyes; my focus is pulled to a point I’m searching for, following this sound to where it came from. 

I find it's one of the groups on the benches, I don’t think they were there when I sat down. It's a group of guys, and they seem to blend into the middle stream of students: not overly popular—whatever  _ that  _ means—but also not really giving a fuck about status. They look eclectic, and I figure they are probably an interesting crowd; they look younger than me but that's standard right about now. I'm really not looking forward to that fact becoming commonplace. 

Just as I'm about to close my eyes again, I hear that laugh once more and I freeze. The boy standing in front of this group—seemingly telling an animated story that involves both arms to gesticulate—steps to the side. He just dodged a sweater being thrown at his face from the one sat on the end who I can’t quite see—maybe the joke is on him? But that thought dissipates quickly because, when the storyteller moves, it allows me to see the boy on the end of the bench unobstructed. 

I think he was the one laughing and there was something I understood in that sound: play acting. I keep watching him simply because I can't not stare at him; he's spirited in whatever he's replying—I  _ think  _ he got the upper hand. But as the conversation moves on he looks away from them; he gazes at the sky, as far away in his mind as the seagull that circles overhead—a dot against the vast, clear blue. 

I know that look. Does he want to be free like me? I'm stuck in this moment watching someone that too closely reflects me, in just one or two mannerisms. Maybe I’m overthinking or my mind is playing tricks on me. 

But then my eyes begin to follow the shape of his profile as he daydreams; his nose and lips and chin… and it's only  _ then  _ that I realise something else about him has captured me. 

My mouth is dry and I swallow quickly, but I still can't shift my eyes elsewhere. I guess this is what instant attraction feels like, something in me is gravitating towards him and I don't even know his name. 

I think the universe must have read my mind because the boy next to the daydreamer shoulders him to gain his attention whilst the orator of the epic tale keeps up his story, but adds in an exasperated “ _ Isak”.  _

And I feel sudden affection for the storyteller because, not only do I now know his name, but with Isak’s attention comes a smile. His smile curves his lips and carves lines into his cheeks—I don't think I've ever seen a smile like it before. It begs to be traced by fingers and lips— 

“Hi,” I blink at the sudden intrusion, frowning up at whoever's talking to me. It's a boy from my class and I lost his name if I was ever given it in the first place. 

“Hey.” I say cautiously, I'm half grateful and half resentful that my ogling has been cut short. I probably shouldn't be looking at someone like that, or thinking about what it would be like to kiss them—to kiss Isak. Not after last year and everything I did, ruined, hurt… 

“The bell’s gonna go in a bit,” he fidgets from one foot to the other, he’s unsure now. Maybe my emotions are too open on my face—I do that sometimes, Sonja says it frightens her. So I smile and remember what that mask feels like as I adjust it. “You wanna walk to class together? I got lost my first week here— _ every single fucking day _ .” He laughs, at ease now, but it's drowned out by the bell.

“Sure,” I reply when the ringing stops, “thanks.” I push myself from the wall and stand. I can't help my eyes from looking past him, scouring the benches across from us. But I think I can just see the backpacks of the group I was watching disappear into the building. 

My classmate turns to lead the way as I dust off my hands. And then he's talking about where everyone hangs out after school and who to speak to about parties. 

I try to make polite conversation and I think it's being brought, he's much to far into his explanation of how this particular segment of society functions and passing that information on to me—like I haven't been to school before, like it isn't the same bullshit everywhere. But I'm smiling because he gave me the time of day and I should be grateful. I need to make friends here after all. 

The conversation moves on to something vapid, the last comment I caught was a suggestion that first year girls were the best crowd at parties because they're easier to impress. I don't even have the energy to tell him that I have a girlfriend. 

But I lose track of his words and where I am as my mind calms—which is a novelty in itself—and I decide that at least something happened today; I learned a name. 

I met Isak, even if he doesn't know I exist. 


	2. White Flags

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Its just—” I stutter, scrubbing at the nape of my neck. I need a shower. “I can tell her I forgot, you don't have to do it for me.” I shrug my shoulders letting my hands fall limp to my side. “I'm nineteen, mum.” I add softly, like she doesn't know the age of her only child.
> 
> The guilt plummets to a new low when she drops her eyes to her hands, placed on the table top in front of her, fingers splayed like she's not sure what to do with herself. She looks abashed and now I feel like shit. Why did I open my fucking mouth?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This POV is set after Even and Isak speak and smoke on the bench, episode 1.
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you enjoy <3

I don't remember walking home. Not the cold, or the dark, nor the gravel that crunched under my feet when I cut across the garden borders instead of taking the path. And I only know  _ that _ because there's scratches along the back of my hand from the thorns on my mums seasonally dull rosebush. 

The red lines they've drawn across my skin are the same colour as the flowers on that bush, when spring rolls around.

I should have worn my gloves.

I only realised the scratches were there when the cold thawed from my flesh and the cuts began to sting. But it's not a lapse, I  _ know  _ this isn't an episode. My mind is on overdrive because I spoke to him. 

Flexing my hand, I watch the colour slowly come back; It was blood red on snow white but now it's a sea of pink with red crests on the waves. I spoke to him.

I spoke to him and all the atoms inside of me are buzzing like I'm boiling, whizzing around and colliding within my body’s shell and each other. I think my chest wants to bloom like those summer flowers with the excitement and wonder I can feel at just accomplishing this simple feat. When did I last feel this high? Have I ever?

“Even?” 

Blinking, I look up. I'm still stood in the hall, toes frigid in my shoes and my mum is looking at me with—now familiar—worry worn eyes, as her head pokes around the corner. I didn't move any further from this spot yet because this is the first time I've been home now that he knows I exist and everything  _ should _ be different. I'm scared that it's the same. I'm not sure how long I've been standing here motionless— _ except _ for my hand flexing open and closed as I've studied it's metamorphosis.

“You OK?” she asks. I hate that question now, it's never said casually, not in my direction anyway. 

“I'm fine.” I say. I've managed to perfect the art of saying that as lightly as everyone else does. The irritation is still there but it's cloaked, chained down, so that the creases don't deepen on her forehead. Her skin smoothes out with relief instead. 

“Did you have a fight?” 

It's my turn to frown because I have no idea what she's talking about. Who would I fight? Does she know about Isak? Does she think it's like last time? No—no, she  _ can't  _ know.  No one knows. I have no one to tell and I didn't write it down, I stopped doing that last year and started making cryptic doodles instead. Well, they're hardly cryptic but no one takes cartoons seriously, do they? So what is she talking about? My mind grapples and turns the problem over to try out different combinations, like a Rubik’s cube. 

“Oh, fuck.” It clicks, just like my mums tongue, tutting at my language. I forgot. Sonja reminded me yesterday; tonight I was supposed to stay with her. But I wasn't thinking about her, I didn't want to think about anyone else but me because I can't remember feeling this alive. I'm alive. And every minute that I'm alive in this world that he’s in, I can feel things waking up within me: desires, wants, passion. My own, not anyone else's.  _ Mine _ . 

“You forgot?” She’s already shaking her head, but not surprised. “I'll text her.” And she disappears around the corner before I can tell her not to. Everyone has spent so long talking about me to each other they don't think I'm capable of communication anymore. They handle me with kiddie gloves and I fucking hate it; again, they don't even know how it makes me feel. 

But now I feel like they're right because I still haven't re-opened any of my old social media accounts. And, eighty-five percent of the time, when people text or call I'll stare at my phone feeling completely inept in something that I never used to even first guess, let alone second guess. And third, and forth...

I mean, once you've written something down it's set in stone, it's been recorded. What if things change, what if I change, what if it's the wrong thing to say? 

And when someone wants to speak to me, I'm so fucking worried about why they felt it necessary to call instead of text that I don't want to know. I don't want to pick up. I don't want those burdens that I'll feel obliged to carry because I  _ know _ I'll want to do just that, when I hear their voice and their plea. I hate seeing people in pain or need, I want to make their lives better, I feel I owe it to them for all of the things I am without asking to be. Without wanting to be. 

Eighty-five percent of the time it's probably fucking sales calls anyway, or those  _ were you in an accident?  _ robotic messages; my brain makes everything so damn severe. But don't get me started on withheld numbers… 

The sound of a chair scraping across tiles cuts through my sprawling thoughts. Then I can hear the crisp sound of paper being turned; she's back in the kitchen reading the newspaper. That's her normal routine, usual habit, nothing new. Something  _ should _ be different. But everything looks the same so far.

I let my shoulders drop and allow air to flow into my desperate lungs. Emotions are complex now; there was elation and anticipation and now I’ve added guilt, fear, anxiety and apprehension to the mix. I can't quite say I'm angry, or I shouldn't be, but it's not easy to shrug the way my mum has subconsciously taken control of the situation. Taken power away from me. 

OK, so I forgot about my plans, but I have to start picking up after my own fuck ups before I'm at the point I can't rely on myself to go for a shit anymore without a second opinion. 

“Mum.” I call out while my left foot fumbles with the back of the right shoe, I'm trying to push them off but it's hard when you have ice blocks for feet. I didn't want to move from this spot until something felt different but this is important, too. 

The second shoe thuds hard against the wall as I fling it towards its partner, and I'm shrugging my jacket off just as I hear my mums absent and delayed hum in response to my call. She'll be onto the crossword now. My cold fingers fumble with the coat hook as I throw the hood over it and then I stalk to her. 

When I stop in the doorway it's exactly what I pictured: she's perched on a stool at the kitchen island, the index finger and thumb on her left hand toy with the corner of a page whilst the right hand delicately suspends a pen above the small, black squares that make up the puzzle. Her wine glass is half full of rose and the light pink of her lipstick has left an imprint on the rim, the colour almost matches the liquid. Her glasses are on the end of her nose when she looks up at me; pensive and proper in every element of her demeanour. This is her routine, this is everyday, nothing is unique. 

“Are you OK, Even?” she asks. My eyes are still leaping from detail to detail to find something out of place. 

“Yeah,” I mumble, meeting her gaze and discontent with the anomalies I haven't yet spotted. “Did you text her?” 

She blinks once at my question before answering with a tight mouth and unsure tone. “Of course.” 

On cue, the screen on her phone lights up and it buzzes. She always has it on silent now, the ring tone makes her anxious. I've told her she can change it but she's adamant that the silent option is suffice, she says that life is noisy enough but I know that it's PTSD. I imagine she won't forget that phone call; where she was, what she was doing, what she was wearing. I've never asked her but I think about it whenever she looks at me like she's desperate to read my mind. 

“I could have done that,” I state, but her focus is on the phone as she slides her thumb across the screen. 

“It's fine.” It’s dismissive and I'm not sure if she's referring to the notion that I'm capable of sending a text or if Sonja is fine with me fucking up.  _ Again _ . 

“ _ What's fine _ ?” My words bite and it's a shock to myself  _ and _ her; she's frowning at me again. 

The phone is slid back to its spot in a precise manner. “ _ Sonja's _ fine. She's going to call you in the morning.” The pen is tapping a rhythm against the counter top as she searches me with eyes that twin my own.

“Thanks,” I mumble. I'm not grateful and it's obvious. My fingers comb through my hair and my body feels tense with all these words and feelings that stay trapped inside. I shift my weight to my left foot and then back to the right. I don't want to argue. I don't want to hurt her. 

“Even, what is wrong?” The words are all pronounced solidly, it's a command that I bristle under. I half turn away, half dedicated to walking away and ignoring this and pushing it all down further still. But then, I look back at the dark hall; the light from the kitchen throws my shadow onto the carpet—it looks taller than I feel. Everything  _ feels _ the same and this would feel the same too, if I just push it down. The half of me that craves change weighs more, so I steal some strength from the impressive silhouette that bleeds out of my feet. A reflection of myself in another dimension maybe. 

I sigh, alleviating the harsh grip on my throat that threatens a tone I don't want to wield. I turn back. “ _ I _ could have texted her.” 

And my eyes lock on to hers for five counts of the second hand on the kitchen clock that's shaped like a cat; its tail swings in motion to the ticks and it's the only movement in the room other than the cogs that I know are whirring in her mind. 

I was never a challenging kid, even when puberty hit, she would always boast about how grown up I was, how calm I seemed. I was always such a good child, so content. She would say it more often when things weren't fitting right anymore and she couldn't recognise the dips in my mood. Self reassurance—I  _ think _ — for what she didn't understand, but every parent wants their kid to be the good kid, the healthy kid, right? And here the guilt comes in, pulling me under for something I had no say in. 

My eyes drop to the floor and I feel warm. Too warm. From ice cold to a sickly, damp heat in too short a time. “Its just—” I stutter, scrubbing at the nape of my neck. I need a shower. “ _ I _ can tell her I forgot, you don't have to do it for me.” I shrug my shoulders letting my hands fall limp to my side. “I'm nineteen, mum.” I add softly, like she doesn't know the age of her only child.

The guilt plummets to a new low when she drops her eyes to her hands, placed on the table top in front of her, fingers splayed like she's not sure what to do with herself. She looks abashed and now I feel like shit. Why did I open my fucking mouth? 

“I'm sorry, darling.” And she is, I can taste the self blame in her words and see it in the colour staining her face. It doesn't take much to push her to scrutinise her motherhood to see where she went wrong in causing all this. It's not her fault, it's not my fault.  _ It's not a fucking fault at all _ . But here we are. Here we are, and now I don't know what to do. 

“I'm not upset—” I scramble to reassure, but she holds up a placating palm and shakes her head with a small, weak smile. 

“Its OK if you are. I don't want you to feel like I'm…,” It's her turn to grasp for words as she fans the hand that was held up, maybe trying to beckon her vocabulary into doling out the words she needs. 

She sighs, defeated. Because she  _ is _ trying to look out for me, to watch over me, to try and keep me from harm. Of course she is, and I get it, but I can't find myself if she does these things for me. Or dad,  _ or _ Sonja. Any of them.

“I don't want you to feel under surveillance, Even.” Her smile is easier now, she's figured out what she means, and what I mean. That wasn't so hard, I guess. 

I nod. “Thank you.” And it's genuine now, her eyes soften and the tightness seems to melt away as she feels my sincerity. 

I've tried to tell her she's a good mum, because she is the absolute best mum—how could she not be? But it's almost as if my words have the opposite effect, she always looks more upset, more self deprecating. So, I've learned not to talk of those things. It's hard to know what I can say and what I can't anymore, that's why I tend to stay quiet—slip by without disturbing the dust too much. 

“Don't be scared to tell me if I overstep your boundaries, Even.  _ Or _ if you do need me to step in. Either way.” I'm sure she means it, but she has no idea how much friction would be created if I spoke up every time I'm stifled.  _ This time _ it's fine— this one off. But if I start to list off all the things that have diluted who I am? Not only would there be a shit storm, but they wouldn't see it from any other perspective than to look out for me. More hurt, more stress, more blame. I don't want the change to be that. But she thinks she means what she's said and I love her for that. I love her. 

Instead of replying, because I don't want to lie to myself anymore than I want to lie to her, I try on a smile. It seems to fit, it seems to ease the room and she sighs fondly. 

“You can talk to me, you know that darling?” She offers it like it's nothing and I'm glad that I put my mask on because my expression inside twists with discomfort. She doesn't want to know the thoughts in my head, no one does. Not even my therapist. Everyone always says they want honesty until they get it. They wouldn't understand, they would take my most simple problem and shape it out of recognition; make a mountain out of a molehill. No. No, I can't talk to her but even that would be a red flag for her if I said it. 

My mask is on but my tongue is tied; I really hate lying. So I find myself walking over to her and wrap my arms around her in a hug that I hope she'll feel as truce; a white flag. It's bizarre that, even though I'm as aware as anyone can be of the situation and my mental health, more often than not I find myself reassuring others. My chest feels tight with the ropes that hold everything unsaid, secure and hidden, it's hard to breathe under its restriction. But her fingers grip on to my arm and she sighs again, resting her cheek against my chest. 

I kiss the top of her head, and as I do I try to fill my cramped lungs. My eyebrows knit together as I find a scent that's unfamiliar to me.

“Did you got new shampoo?” I mumble. 

She snorts delicately, if that's possible. “No. I've had it a while now. Why?” 

I shrug and release her. My chest is still tight. Shaking my head I try and think of what I can say without sounding crazy. “It just seemed different. But everything's the same.” 

She smiles to give  _ me _ comfort now, squeezing the hand that I've placed on the countertop. “Everything is the same,” she reassures, as if that's the thing that I need or want. The tightness in my chest spreads into my throat and this bit is new, the feeling that I want to cry. In frustration or loss, I don't know. But I can't remember the last time I cried. I don't know if I’ve ever cried, actually. 

Clearing my throat, I take a step back. “I need a shower.” My mask holds up and she nods, her hand moving to the stem of her wine glass. 

“You want me to warm you up some food?” Her eyes drop to the newspaper and, after a sip of her wine, her fingers find her pen. She's right, nothing has changed. 

“No, I'm tired, I'll just wash and sleep.” 

“Sleep is good,” she says, still smiling at me as I retreat to the doorway. “Just shout if you change your mind,” she adds before her focus is back on the word search. 

I nod but it's only for my shadows benefit. I don't feel like talking anymore and my legs seem just as eager to be away as I stride up the stairs. 

* * *

Everything was the same. As I took my clothes off and showered, as I dried myself and found clothes to sleep in, as I climbed into bed. No anomalies at all. 

Maybe it's all in my head, but I'm not sure what I'm referring to; the incessant need to see changes in the world now or the fact that I spoke to him meant anything at all. 

Disappointment isn't a new feeling that I cloak myself in I note, as I stare blankly at the ceiling. 

The room is dark and my bed is technically comfortable, but I've been laying here, eyes wide, for a long time. My mum has gone to bed by now, she'll have assumed I'm sleeping soundly like usual. 

This is the part where I'm not even surrounded by people and I feel alone. It's that solitude that is defined with every one of my sense, and for whatever bizarre reason I prefer this loneliness over the one that tries to masquerade as anything but. Always alone, sometimes by myself, sometimes in company, but always alone. Not that I really like or want either, but there it is. Probably another thing that makes no sense to anyone but me. Probably another thing that would set off red flags.  

_ White flags _ ; that's what everyone needs.

I let out a deep sigh that seems to release air that was held in my toes, at least my chest doesn't hurt when I'm truly alone. 

The fingers on my left hand find the other hand laying dormant on my abdomen. The sting in my cuts flared for no reason; I'd forgotten about those scratches. My index finger begins to trace the marks. 

It runs over the first: I.

Then the second: S.

The third: A. 

And then the fourth: K.

There is no more. Four perfect scratches. Four perfect marks on my flesh. And it's only then that I realise  _ I'm _ different, something has shifted in me. Maybe only a little but I feel changes, I've felt what I want, what could be my own. I felt tears creep up on me at the loss it could be if this is all imagined. And if I want, I can keep changing, keep evolving. It's in me. 

I can't remember wanting anything more. 

I close my eyes and, as I do, I conjure his own unsure and fleeting gaze. I repeat the hesitant words he said. I remember the part of my arm that pressed against him. 

And I repeat. I repeat and replay until those memories drift and warp into half dreams before dissolving into sleep filled with boundless hope. 

 


	3. Sea Of Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She clears her throat, trying to stay clinical and not let my reactions provoke her. I fucking hate that. “I can smell the weed, you know you shouldn't be smoking.”
> 
> Weed. She thinks this is the weed? I almost laugh but I hold it back, instead I stay unmoving and expressionless. This is an excuse for me to use, does she know she's giving me excuses? In the back of her mind does she know it's more? She's not stupid, that's for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This comes after episode 2 and their bonding session at Even's is cut short. 
> 
> Enjoy.

The room buzzes. It throbs. It pulsates. And all I can do is breathe. This is my space but it’s not free right now, I’m not on my own. Everything is rushing beneath the surface, but I’m sitting here still. Placid.

_ Breathe _ .

I can’t start picking it apart yet, if I do I’m sure my face will change and I think my smile is being brought right now. Someone says something about a party last week—it was the highlight of the year so far and better than the high school parties we use to go to; I nod. 

I didn’t expect to get here; story of my life. This wasn’t the plan, this was all a clusterfuck of impulse crashing into cold reality and forgotten plans. Two weather fronts meeting but the storm is raging beneath my skin. I don’t even have his number, so if I wanted to apologise I can’t. And I want to apologise.

But apologise for what? I don’t even know what he thinks when he looks at me. I  _ think _ I know, and I’m taking any chance I can grab right now, but I could be fucking wrong. It could all be in my head, that’s happened before. I’m  _ sure  _ this is different, but I’m struggling to trust instincts that have been stifled since the last time I burnt myself. It’s hard to trust your grasp of reality when it’s been proven wrong in your head—again and again.

And it’s bizarre because I’m constantly considered by eyes that want to know exactly what I’m thinking, whereas I’ve always maintained that level of privacy for others. I don’t want to know their inner thoughts because it’s personal—sacred. But I want to know what’s in  _ his _ mind. I wanted to know what he was thinking when he made his excuses and slipped to the door, letting himself out with a quiet smile that didn’t touch his eyes like it did earlier: when we sat at the window, in the kitchen, in my room… before the buzzer went. 

And what’s ironic is I’m scared of his rejection already, when  _ I’m  _ the one that just paraded in front of him, silently shouting that whatever connection he might have thought we had was—if not a lie—not reality. Something I’m hiding. 

_ Fuck _ . But how do I explain it? I don’t even know if it makes sense to me. 

I’d been hoping we would meet, that we’d connect again. Hoping isn’t really the word, calculated fantasies would be more accurate. And just like that, he was there; he got on the tram and stood right next to me without even realising. It’s like the universe provided him to me and me to him. I forgot about everything else when he asked me for a favour, to buy him beer; it was a chance. If you'd asked me my own name then and there, I probably wouldn't have been able to tell you.

I’d walked up and down the aisle trying to figure it out. After a year of flatlining, autopilot and numbness, he makes impulse bubble beneath my skin and I don’t know how to contain it. This is how I used to feel—well, not entirely. I was always happy to act on the ideas that popped into my head, spin them and entertain any opportunity that crossed my path. But this is almost dire, like I  _ have _ to do the right thing, I  _ have _ to spend more time with him. And if I just ask him over to mine he might say no, and then there's my rejection. 

So, by needing to do the right thing, I did the wrong thing. I lied. I said I didn’t have my I.D., even if that  _ was _ the case, they know me there. I’m not sure how I got away with it. And guilt keeps tugging at my consciousness. Things had seemed so black and white before this, now there's a vast sea of grey that I’m trying to navigate, it's hard not to lose my bearings. 

Maybe this is karma? Because Sonja doesn’t deserve this. Isak doesn’t deserve it. I lost track of the day, the time, where I even was in the universe. All I could focus on was his laugh; he was laughing with me like there was not another care in the world. He was looking at me, and there's something exhilarating about the way he looks at me that I can’t put my finger on. I felt like I was floating; way up high above the grey waves and I could make out the dark contours of the land, navigate myself so easily, but all I wanted to do was turn my back on the earth and stare at the stars. With him. 

God, I hope this isn’t all in my head. 

_ Breathe. _

Panic swarmed in my chest when the buzzer went—when I’d gone to the door. Sonja knew about Mikael, she found out what happened. It was all uncovered when every moment of my life for months was unpicked and scrutinised while I watched, expected not to feel any shade of embarrassment at my life stretch and hung for everyone to see—because it was for my own  _ good _ . It was just one of the small things on the mountain of fuckups that sent me on a downward spiral. I haven’t made close friends since then. It’s just been her, mum and dad. Sure, we socialise with others, but someone that I would invite to my room? Just us? No, she’d know. Maybe she already does. 

I’d panicked because what if her knowing means she will say it’s the same as before? And once she’s said it, it will be the same. It will become what she said it was. So, she can’t know. I don’t want anyone to see this thing I’ve found, this thing that feels like cool water running over my skin in the heat of summer. This thing that, to my eyes, looks like a colour I’ve never seen before. No one can see this yet, not until I know, not until I’ve figured it out and then I can say that they’re wrong when they try and take it from me. 

I shut it all down, I put on my mask, the walls went up and I turned my back on a sense of self that had emerged for the first time in over a year. I turned my back on Isak and I did what was expected. This is the Even she knows, not the panic shaken person fumbling to grip onto something currently intangible, but the loving, amorous Even, that kisses and touches and wants to make people feel good. 

Right now I hate my mask. What options did I have? Honesty feels like a bet I can’t place right now. I can’t gamble. I don’t know what the odds are and how to play the damn game. But what about me feeling good? I  _ want _ to feel. 

Something tells me she knew, whether she was consciously aware or not. She gripped to me firmer than normal, when we have company in any case. The kisses were longer and I could feel his disappointment burning into the side of my face. I’m an asshole. I tried to protect this thing and I think I destroyed it. Everything I touch falls apart. I shouldn’t be allowed to touch him.

“What about you, Even?”

I look up. It’s buzzing. Pulsating, There are people in my space. My eyes drift from one face to the next, all turned to me. I forgot to breathe. I began to unpick this tangle, I should have waited. I should have stayed in the room instead of sailing into the storm. 

“Sure,” I shrug. Hopefully that was the correct answer, but judging by the frowns I think I got it wrong. Why change the habit of a lifetime? I don't even know who asked the damn question. “Fuck it,” I say as I stand, but I fully intended to just think the words. Now they look confused but I don't care. I can't do small talk right now, they can have my space.

I'm hoping for five blessed minutes to resurrect my walls, but I'm not even halfway down the hall before footsteps begin to trace my escape path. Fuck. I just need  _ five _ minutes. 

I don't stop until I'm in the kitchen, yanking the fridge open for another beer. She arrives by the time I'm rattling through the cutlery drawer, searching for a bottle opener. And my silence continues after I pop the lid and throw it, with more vehemence than necessary, in the bin. She's staring at me and I don't want to look at her. When I look at her I'll start to see things from her perspective. I'll forget myself and I have a right to feel these things. They are  _ mine _ . 

“ _ What _ ?” I ask, there's irritation clear in my voice but I'm tired of being scrutinised. She's surprised, probably upset. But you know what? So am I. 

I can see her arms across over her chest, but she's probably trying to figure out how to approach this wearing kid gloves. Because I can't be spoken to or argued with like a regular fucking adult. 

“I know what this is.” She says softly. It's patronising but that doesn't filter past the fear that grips at me that's she's figured it out. She's figured out and she's going to destroy it. Wring it out, hang it up to be examined by everyone. 

“Of course you do.” The fear makes me bitter, I can't keep it from tainting my tone and my expression as I scowl out the window into the pitch black beyond. But of course she would  _ think _ she knows.

I wonder if Isak is home by now? I wonder what he's thinking? He probably has the luxury to analyse all of this without people imposing on him. My thoughts are distractions to keep me from focussing on her. I don't want this confrontation. I don't want this discussion. I don't want to be found out. 

She clears her throat, trying to stay clinical and not let my reactions provoke her. I fucking hate that. “I can smell the weed, you know you shouldn't be smoking.”

_ Weed. _ She thinks this is the weed? I almost laugh but I hold it back, instead I stay unmoving and expressionless. This is an excuse for me to use, does she know she's giving me excuses? In the back of her mind does she know it's more? She's not stupid, that's for sure. 

“Probably,” I grunt. I'm an asshole for claiming the lie. I get that. Somehow I'm tempering my anger because at the end of the day this isn't her fault. She's trying, just like everyone else is. 

She sniffs. Just like I expect my mum would. “You don't need friends like that, you'll get influenced. You're not the same as then.” 

I was  _ trying  _ to temper my anger. I don't move, my fists grip handfuls of my hoodie as I wrap my arms around myself, my jaw clenches and I focus on the cat clock, breathing in time to the tail swinging back and forth. I've never felt more explosive in my life. 

I’m not the same as them? I'll be influenced? Where do I even fucking start?  

“It was mine.” First off, I should correct the facts. Isak didn't bring it, not at school, nor here. Despite my blood boiling, my voice is calm. Too calm. “The weed was mine.” I see her blink from the corner of my eye, perplexed at what I’m displaying, and frozen for an instant before she shakes her head in refusal. 

“ _ How _ ?” 

A derisive snort rips from me. But I still don't want to look at her. “You're asking me how I got weed? Like everyone else does, I know a guy.” 

Her mouth opens and closes and she shifts from one foot to the other. “I mean,  _ why _ ?” And she honestly sounds confused, like she can't fathom why I’d do this to myself, to her, to everyone. Threatening this maddeningly fragile existence. 

Sometimes the fear of breaking something is harder to live with than the fear of the aftermath. Sometimes things have to break. Realign. Reforge. The plates of the earth constantly shift and change, the consequence devastating and nourishing in equal parts. Chaos is the nature of life; not this rigid, tasteless safety. This  _ isn't  _ living.

“Because I wanted to smoke, Sonja. Why do you think?”

Now I turn to her, face on, and she's boring into my skull with her eyes, trying to read the thoughts that I hide. But I feel smug in the sense that she’ll never know these private conversations, I used to want it all transparent and out in the open so people wouldn't probe me. I could close my eyes while they examined and organised my life around them as would best fit with everyone else. But not anymore. They are  _ my _ thoughts. 

“But you know that you can't,” she splutters, the anger is coming now and for some reason, it's cathartic to me. “You know its not good for you.” 

I shrug. “I'm not a child,” I answer simply, knowing my nonchalance will provoke her. 

“Then why are you acting like one?”

It's now that I split in two. I can see the plea in her eyes now, her fear, her memories re-playing in her mind, her preparation to fall into a bleak chasm simply so that I'm not stumbling in the dark alone. But I  _ am _ alone now, no matter what she wants to do or how she wants to help. She can't let me feel. 

She's right. I'm being childish. I should face this head on, stop beating around the matter and be honest. I have too many carers in my life and not one person I can relate to, not one person who could  _ need  _ me, or  _ wants  _ me for their own, just how I will want and need them. Some equal footing. I see a glimpse of that with him and I can't set it down, I can't not want it. But how do I get there from here? I want to be honest but I'll break her, not just risk myself. Can I do that? After everything I've already done? 

And yet half of me is still angry and it  _ is _ legitimate. How does everyone expect me to act like anything but  _ this _ when they treat me like a goddamn child? My power is taken from me, my decisions. I can't breathe and it's them who tie me in knots so that I can't, and the worst thing is these bindings are all made with good intentions. 

I'm stuck. I'm trapped. I feel like there's no way to be free.

Closing my eyes, I let the air bleed from me with a sigh. “Sorry,” I say simply.

I listen to the silence that stretches out between us. She knows the sorry is for more, it's for things long past and things yet to come, I’m sure she doesn't miss the nuance in the taste of that one word. That's why we’re quiet now, as the cat tail swings back and forth. 

“I shouldn't have said that.” 

My shoulders slump forward. Yes, she should have, she had every right too. Why does  _ she _ sound apologetic? I'm agitated that she feels the need to make this ok when this is my doing. Another fucking ridiculous emotional conundrum I feel, another heap of irrational and confrontational emotion towards her simply trying to bridge this fissure that's split beneath us. I don't make much sense right now but maybe I’ve felt too little for too long and it's catching up to me, and no matter how hard I run I’m not going to escape this tidal wave. 

I throw my hands up and try and smile. She tries to smile back but the warning flare is already lit behind her eyes. 

“It’s fine. We’re fine.” No, we're not, and I know it. Will she acknowledge it, too? 

She rolls her eyes. “Of course. Long week for us both, I guess.”  

“Something like that.” Long evening, long week, long year… 

She hesitates. I can see she's weighing up whether to allow this truce to stand or whether to make a point. She  _ will _ make a point because she's Sonja. I know it even if she doesn't.

“You know.” She takes a small step towards me, then another. I let the countertop take my weight and anchor me here, stop me from pulling away. I'm not sure I can cope with any form of intimacy right now. “If you're feeling stressed you can just let me know, I could run you a bath,” she continues, coming to stop next to me and there's pink in her cheeks now, “Or a massage… or other things.” She's smirking. 

I know what she means and it's not her that makes my insides twist. To anyone else, to Isak even, this might seem like I'm pleasing myself, that I’m selfish and unwilling to compromise on my desires. But that's just not true. To be torn in two between where you want to be and where you think you should be, for the benefit of the many—losing myself in the process. It's gutting me.

But I smile, despite feeling like a traitor to everyone including myself. “Sounds nice,” I offer. She takes it. 

Standing on her tiptoes, she kisses my cheek before ruffling up my hair fondly. “You don't need weed,” she laughs softly but she's damn serious and I know it. She knows the odds in this particular game. “And you can  _ always  _ talk to me.” 

No, I can't, but I'm nodding anyway. “I know.” Empty words but they're accepted. I wonder if she'll play back this exchange later, draw it out, hang it up for inspection. Of course she will.

I push her hair behind her ear—she always likes it when I play with her hair—before leaning forward to kiss her forehead. I can smell her perfume, it's the deeper musk that comes in a purple bottle. It's one of my favourites but right now I can only think about the natural smell when he leaned in close to me, remnants of some shower gel from early that day and clean perspiration from a full day under several layers. Regardless of my adulterous thoughts and this whole mess, I don't want her to hate me. I can't see that  _ not _ happening, no matter how I play things out in my head.

“I'm tired,” I say, and for effect, my jaws crack on a yawn. I’m more than tired. I'm also an asshole again because I know she'll cater for my needs, she'll herd our friends elsewhere, giving me space. “I think I need to sleep.” 

“Sleep is good.” She's nodding enthusiastically. It's a phrase both her and my mum say, ecstatic that I appear to be resting. They know what it means when I can't sleep. “I'll take them to the living room.” She smiles happily, pleased with herself for being able to do something for me.

Tilting her chin up, she asks wordlessly for a kiss, and I switch to autopilot. There's a lot that I shouldn't feel that I do, but one thing I know should be present is gratitude and that's there. Not at every word or every action, but she is doing her best in a terrible situation. Anyone on the outside looking in would brand me a monster; they'd be right. 

Pulling back, she grins, content. And I sigh in that way where the tremors of a mild earthquake ebb away without any real damage. But you  _ know  _ that pressure and time are mounting. You know that damage is inevitable. Any relief you feel is simply the deep breath before the plunge. 

“Ill shout when we’re out of the way.” She’s almost out of the room before she stops, a concern coming to her. “Did you eat anything?” 

I blink. I did— _ we _ did. It seems like it was yesterday but we were here, in this kitchen, making the worst cheese toasties in existence. We were here laughing and smiling. The devastating contrast between then and now hurts my heart. It's been so long since I felt something there. 

“Yeah,” I reassure, “it was good.” 

She gives me a curious look but just shakes her head, staying blind to the ambiguity of my answer. Or perhaps she just didn't feel the undercurrents. 

“Good.” 

* * *

One of the few things that I personally added to my routine was showering before bed. It's a part I always stick to because I can feel the water sluicing away irritations that I picked up that day. I can let it all go down the drain. 

This time it doesn't work. But something happens in its place, each droplet of water feels like a teardrop, all of them saved up. I'm counting all the tears I hold but it doesn't feel like release, only realisation that there are bodies of water within—my own sea of emotions—that need to be explored. I've always been deeper than people assumed, even before the diagnosis, I just have a calm surface. How different would things be without the disorder? 

Washed clean and in bed, I'm unsurprised by the sleep that keeps its distance. I said sorry today to one person and not the other. I said sorry for all the wrong reasons. 

Sitting up, I switch on my lamp. There's a shelf above my head on the wall, on it I keep my sketchbook and some pens. With the pillows at my back, I begin to sketch the thing I can't do. Maybe one day I can give this to him. 

I draw a rectangle; it's a phone screen, Isak’s phone. In it, I draw a message bubble, and above that, I write my own name. 

_ Sorry for today. There's so much I want to say. So much I'm scared to say. I'm sorry I hurt you. I hurt myself too. I hope you can forgive me. Even. _

I stare at it for a long time, following the words with the nib of my pen. His name should be on there, I want to write it down, but what if someone goes through my things? Because it happens. I know that for a fact. Instead, I repeat the words again and again while I think of him. Maybe he'll feel it somehow. 

My thoughts begin to unravel, my words stop making sense, and I surrender. Closing my eyes, I drift off, book and pens sprawled over me and the lamp on. The last thing I remember is considering how things would stand now if tonight was Thursday. I had no plans yesterday. Who would I have kissed before bed?

The room is still, it’s calm, there's only the steady beat of my heart. 

  
  



	4. Tracks in the Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Any control I thought I had slips from my grasp as I feel the delicate traces his fingers make along my skin; I can't explain how his innocent willingness both turns me on and terrifies me. His fingers are just like him, unsure but delighting in every inch of territory claimed. Can I even be trusted with him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: if you're looking for an update, click back a chapter! Sorry I screwed the chapter orders as I've only just figuered what I'm doing with this gif. Once we get to chapter 6 (this one) the order will be good after that.
> 
> I thought first person sexy time was a good idea; please berate me if I have any such whims again. 
> 
> So I like being in Even’s head and I wanted to do a section from episode 5, in the night after they lay in bed talking and before Isak wakes up alone. 
> 
> I've not edited. I'm stalling with writing and I really wanna clear some of these whims that have been occupying me. So forgive mistakes!

Whenever I wake up, it usually feels like I'm counting back from hypnosis. That I'm leaving some darker dimension, one reluctant footstep at a time—but I leave it all the same because that's what I'm supposed to do. I can't sleep forever, or at least that's what they say.

  
This time was different. I let out a sigh as my senses are filled with foreign textures and smells, but these things are rapidly becoming familiar to me. And fuck knows I've thought about them enough. They curl around me like smoke, luring me from a sleep that I'm surprised I found at all.

  
He fell asleep first, I have no idea when but the light had already dimmed outside. I must have followed him, words had become mutters and there's something cathartic about him falling asleep in my arms. We have never been here in this place with each other before, but I can't help the way it feels like respite. He doesn't look at me with expectations in his eyes, just what-ifs—and I'm intrigued by them as much as he is.

  
Now it's pitch black but I don't need my eyes. His body is in my arms, back pressed to my chest and I can feel his heart beating against mine. Deep and slow breaths are drawn; he's still asleep.

  
I don't want to wake him but I feel so alive in this moment that I’m going to explode. It's so overwhelming that I have to remind myself it might be a good idea to release the air held hostage in my chest.

  
He let me in, even though it's still a mess—and we both know it. Once we emerge from this peaceful echo chamber we'll have to face it. I wish my mind wouldn't cling onto the bits of the puzzle that haven't been set into place yet, but here we are; my brain is trying to figure out the corner pieces, colour code and work on one tiny detail all at once. Why can't I just enjoy this? Why can't my thoughts be at peace?

  
I'm impulsive, it's a part of who I am, but I can't say this wasn't planned; I've steered myself in this direction even though I didn't know where the currents would drag me. But I needed him, more than I've ever needed anything. It's been a desperate drive here—to this point—where I now have the knowledge of what sounds he makes when he sleeps, where I'm freely given these smiles and the laughter and those kisses that transform me in a single moment. And I don't know what I'm changed into but it is different, I'm different when I'm with him. It all seems justified, despite the fall out that will inevitably follow this weekend.

  
Fuck, what I wouldn't give just to take things as lightly as everyone else seems to, or at least how easily they perceive the way I deal with things. But I feel like my life depends on this. On him. How can I relax?

  
Now I find myself caught in complete paralysis; I don't want to disturb this fragile utopia, but in that same breath there's an overbearing need to put my lips to him to make sure I haven't remembered the way he tastes wrong.

  
My empathy wins the fight and I'm content to simply lay here and absorb the warmth. I relax my head back on to sheets that are now crisp and cool; the contrast between that and the heat we generate—as we lie intertwined like this—is more than welcome. My arm is numb where his head is resting on it, I try to wriggle my fingers but I feel nothing but a tingling sensation that shoots up my bones, it’s almost painful. But I won't move, I'll stay like this as long as I'm able to. How long can I stretch out an hour? A night?

  
My palm is on his stomach while it heaves slowly to the rhythm his lungs dictate. We took off our sweatshirt but left our t-shirts on; it was a trepid dance at points trying to figure out where our boundaries are right now. It's all so new and fresh, I don't want to make the wrong move. It's just like when it snows and you're a kid, you want nothing more than to run out and roll snowballs and build snowmen and feel the flakes kiss your skin. But you know as soon as you step outside you'll make muddy tracks, your body will melt the snow and you will have ruined the perfection.

  
I don't want to ruin him. Maybe I should go…. And this isn't the first time I've planned my escape.

  
I'm thinking about frigid snow in my hand, but it's his warm flesh that’s beneath my palm. And I can't move my arm from around him, with that singular flimsy barrier between his body and mine. I shouldn't be thinking like this, I know that these things can wait—wait until it's perfect. When would anything ever be perfect? He can decide that, I suppose.  
I should stop holding him like this because it's becoming painful to be this close, and he's so blissfully unaware of this war in my skull.

  
I try to lift my hand, it feels weighed down but I know it's simple reluctance. As I shift, his shirt sticks to my palm, dragging and ruching it. My fingers work quickly to smooth the material flat, so that I don't disturb his clothes—so that I don't make tracks in the snow—but the tips of my fingers graze against his skin; firm and taut over his abdomen.

  
It's an instant reaction to my touch, the way his breath hitches like the mildest glance of my fingers set off an explosion inside of him. And, honestly, it was a match scraped against the striking surface for me too. The soft down of hair teases the pads of my fingers and I'm sure I can feel every single molecule of my body that presses against him in microscopic detail.

  
I flatten my hand against his bare skin and there's nothing to blame that move on except pure selfishness, but it's more than a need to feel him—it's compulsion. The staggered breath that falters from his lungs acts like a gale as it causes a whirlwind of thoughts and desires to spin in my head; he was holding his breath, too.

  
It's only then that I feel his heart, hammering a frantic beat where it was calm and dependable before. He's awake—I woke him—and I should feel guilty. But any contemplation of what I should or shouldn't be feeling washes away like chalk in the rain because his body turns towards me. His skin glides smoothly under my hand and now it's resting on his waist; it's a shallow curve that feels like it was made for me to hold.

  
A soft sigh escapes his lips, I can only make out shades of grey in the room but I look for his eyes. Will he keep them closed? Will he want to see me and be seen, as my body touches his in the night while blood runs through our veins like a flash flood? Does he want to be conscious of these thoughts and feelings and actions? I know we've had the day but maybe that was a mistake, maybe he regrets it. Will he hide himself from me?

  
My worries are escalating like my responses to his proximity, but the anxiety stills instantly when I see whatever small amount of light is in the room reflected from his eyes; a perfect pool of black surrounded by pure white.

  
Maybe I should say something, but what? I'm holding onto his body like it belongs to me and we've barely crossed this divide. All I know is my fingers strain to explore him, to know him, every last molecule.

  
While I'm still struggling at this impasse, I anticipate sounds forming on his tongue. It's only four letters that he gives me but it's my name in his mouth and nothing sounds quite like it—right now it's a blend of question and need.

  
Just like that, my dilemmas evaporate like steam, I can't figure out why anything would make me hesitate—not here, with Isak. I don't need to hold back. I feel vague tangents tug at my mind, imagining how he might react if I tell him everything. But those possible realities fly out of my hand like I'm playing fifty two card pickup. I don't know who I’m playing because the cards are forgotten as soon as they leave my fingers and my lips find his—or he found mine. Who's gonna clear up the mess? But it doesn't really fucking matter, all I care about is I remembered the way he tastes. It's the same texture and feel, the very same sensation my dreams have teased me with for weeks. I could have left earlier and told myself I was lying about how good this feels, but I didn't. I stayed and now I know—I know this is right and that everything else I ever knew was wrong.

  
I'm getting high off the air he feeds me when our lips separate, and my chest burns every time his inhales are more desperate. I feel on fire. And my hand feeds off that energy, it's moving up under his shirt and indulging in it's discovery of his skin. My thumb runs over his ribs, painstakingly counting every groove it finds, and his skin was soft before but now it's goose-bumped.

  
A shiver runs through him when I find his nipple: pebbled and hard. I can't help the urge that swells in me to devour his responsiveness to the simple way I'm caressing him. But all I can do is satisfy my hunger with his kisses, those on their own are more than enough. His fingers are in my hair holding me to him, lost in this moment within the dark together. My hand rests against his neck and I can feel his pulse rage against my skin. But it's him, not me, that finds his clothing too confining—well, he reached the breaking point first.

  
Now he shifts around, lips leaving mine with an irritated grunt that nearly brings a laugh from me. But need takes up all the room in my mind that's set aside for emotion.

  
Limbs brush against my chest and cheek as he yanks off his t shirt, not wanting to drift too far from me. And now his hands are tugging at my top, demanding it follow his own into the bleak obscureness that is anywhere other than the space our bodies occupy. And then that laugh does break free, staggered and muffled as cotton is tugged over my head.

  
But any sound I’m making is muted by his mouth, landing on mine with deadly precision. My hands want to be everywhere and all at once; I cup his face before tracing back down his throat, I flow around his side, wrapping an arm around his back while my fingers anchor over his shoulder, holding him so tight against me I'm surprised he doesn't complain.

  
All he does is persuade my body to press against his as he falls back on the mattress. I thought maybe it was so I could take the lead and dictate how far things go but he proves me wrong as his palms begin to sweep down my back.

  
Any control I thought I had slips from my grasp as I feel the delicate traces his fingers make along my skin; I can't explain how his innocent willingness both turns me on and terrifies me. His fingers are just like him, unsure but delighting in every inch of territory claimed. Can I even be trusted with him?

  
It's like he knows my thoughts are hesitant because his fingers push beneath my shorts as he grabs my ass so firmly it borders on pain. But he pulls me against himself, the sensation of friction between us blots out any discomfort—if there was any there in the first place. And that lit match was thrown carelessly on to gasoline.

  
I'm not sure if it's Isak’s gasp I hear or my own, we're probably echoing each other anyway. And, if I couldn't guess it, he shows me that he likes that feeling because I'm pulled against him again, but this time his hips tilt up to meet me—increasing the pressure that's mounting rapidly.

  
I can feel him now, feel his excitement in every way because his cock is as hard as mine when I move over him—and fuck it feels good. I think I said just that because he's snickering in my ear, but that pleased laugh melts into a groan when I roll my hips against him. This time, when I pull back, his shorts are pushed down by the friction.

  
“Fuck.” Isak’s voice is almost panicked as the tip of his cock pushes against my stomach—skin against skin—leaving a warm smear where he's leaking. His hands cling to my back and I feel him tense, so I slow my motion over him, but I don't have time to ask what's wrong before he blurts out his worries freely. “I'm gonna make a mess on you—”

  
But I cut him off with my mouth, kissing him until I feel him relax again. Is that what he's concerned about? I want him to make a fucking mess on me. And, again, that innocence blows my mind. “I want you to.” I say, my voice sounds coarse because I'd forgotten how to talk.

  
His reactions to my words are vivid, despite the dark. Head falling back to the pillow, he makes a low groan that's wanting and impatient. I can feel it vibrate through him as the noise travels from his chest to his lips. His fingers take a firm grip in my hair, pulling me back to his mouth while legs hook around me and his body undulates beneath me.

  
I feel like we're underwater again, I'm pulled down into this other world where we don't even need to breathe. It doesn't take long to find a rhythm, grinding against each other. Everything about this is exhilarating, not just where our bodies touch, or where our cocks are feeling each other out—despite the clothes in the way—but his sharp inhales and fingers that grab on to me as possessively as I was holding him. My waist, back, neck, shoulders, and hair all feel that intense caress in turn as his hands travel up and down my body. I want him and he wants me and it's as simple as that.

  
But I need more. I'm propped up on my elbows over him, combined with the way he's wrapped around me, I'm restricted in what I can do—and I want to do so much. Freeing a hand, I weave it between him and the mattress, holding him tight before rolling onto my back. He moves so easily with my body, even if I can feel him frown as he wonders what I'm doing.

  
I give him enough time to find his balance over me, his arms rest on either side of my face and his lips meet mine just as I push my hand between our bodies. My knuckles stroke down his stomach before my fingers tease at the waistband of his shorts. His breath catches and his body freezes momentarily, then the air floods from him in a frustrated whimper that he passes to me, pushing our mouths together in a demanding kiss that contrasts his plea.

  
I'm not sure if I'm complying with his demand or I'm controlling this with his approval, it doesn't matter either way. What matters is I've crossed the boundary—well, several by now—as my hand moves to separate material from flesh.

  
I don't know where he thinks I've been before or what I've done; we haven't discussed experiences yet. I know this is a first for him, even though he hasn't said so—he doesn't need to. He has this faith in me that I know what I'm doing, that I've been here before, but I haven't. It's as new for me as it is for him. I just can't stop myself; I've felt heat and snow, gales and rain like the four seasons have been summoned within this bed. What happens when all those forces meet head on? Something more than I can control, in the very least.

  
It doesn't help when he pants heavily against my lips, forehead pressed to my own, keeping his eyes locked to mine when I grip him. And there was no use in worrying over the fact that I've never done this before because it feels natural. It's unique and completely familiar, touching him like I touch myself; smooth skin gliding easily over hard muscle.

  
I know that it feels good but the confirmation doesn't hurt; now it's him that's cursing when he remembers to breathe. Perhaps I would snicker, the way he had, but I'm too focussed on how he shivers and rocks against me, chasing the sensation of my palm moving over his cock.

  
I may not be thinking about my own pleasure, but the way he moves and the quickening noises he makes coupled with the humidity thick between us is so fucking arousing—I ache like I've been hard for hours. And he must know that because he pushes away from me on unsteady arms, until he's sat upright. Before I can tell him otherwise—because this is supposed to be about him—his hand is pawing at my shorts, fumbling beneath the material until he's pulling my cock free.

  
Any words I was trying to form break under a groan. His skin is against mine and there's no hesitation when he matches me stroke for stroke. It's an awkward position but neither of us have the time to give a fuck, this works and everything is so erratic that literally anything would work right now.

  
Christ, I want to do so much more. I want to push him to the bed and run my tongue over every inch of him because I can't get enough of the sounds he makes and I want to know how many variations I can conjure from his chest. But I know this won't last, him or me. All I can do is push myself up on my elbow as he bows over me to catch quick, breathless kisses from him between groans we're both guilty of voicing.

  
It's when his head drops to my shoulder and his body jerks that I know his coming, and he's not silent either. My name is a curdled, frantic moan rushing out of him; I'm not sure if it's that or the warmth I feel dripping over my knuckles that finishes me, but the tension that's coiled snaps just like my words.

  
“Fuck, Isak.” I may have been too loud but it doesn't bother him, I can practically feel him smirking against my throat. My come is merging with his, pooling on my stomach, but his hand doesn't stop it's deliberate movements until my muscles surrender and I'm flat on my back, heart racing.

  
It's only then that I know, as he bends over the edge of the bed to grab one of our shirts and begins wiping my skin dry, that I was never in control. Any ideals that I would be the one to guide where we go are erased; he's in this as an equal, I may have instigated but he's so sure of himself. That thought gives relief to worries I'd almost banished.

  
I take the shirt to wipe off my hand and toss it to the floor. Before the garment hits the carpet, he's already melted into the spot by my side. And, as I turn to him, he's laughing softly.

  
“You sound proud of yourself,” I say, curling around him.

  
“I am.” The reply is overtaken by a yawn before his limbs wrap around me. They bring me to him, as he takes a kiss from my lips, but there's an unlimited supply there for him.

  
And I can't get my head around what we just did, how it feels to be close to him, how natural the sensation of touching and being touched is between us. I feel high. But it's in contrast to him; he’s humming sleepily and contentedly as I kiss along his jaw.

  
“Was that OK?” It's a redundant question—I _know_ it was—but I feel the need to ask regardless, if there's any worries I want him to speak them.

  
He snorts a laugh. “Of course it was.” But his voice is soft, I can hear him thinking over _something_. So, I draw back to look down on him; I can see him chewing his lip.

  
“ _What_?” He hums in feigned confusion at my question and now it's me that's snickering. “What are you thinking?”

  
His lips pull up at the corners as he tries to repress a smile, his fingers toying with the hair at the nape of my neck.

  
“I was just wondering what other things we could try-” But whether or not he intended to suggest what those things might be, I'll never know because another yawn muffles his words.

  
I bend down to kiss him once his sighed exhaustion ebbs away. “You should sleep,” I murmur against his lips.

  
The next sigh is mildly petulant. “OK.” But he doesn't sound wholly convinced.

  
“I'll be here when you wake up.” I grin at him, he's almost pouting and it's probably a good idea he doesn't know how easy it would be for him and his mouth to persuade me to consider his intentions. But my words make him smile and he gives in before I do.

  
I shift onto my back, and he moves with me, ending up sprawled across my chest.

  
“You will,” he replies. “Forever, remember?”

  
My fingers smooth through his hair, giving the reassurance my face can't right now. “Forever.” I whisper back to him, he seems to take it as agreement and I don't correct him as his breathing deepens and I feel sleep settle in his bones. It could have taken a minute or an hour for him to fall asleep, but I've lost time staring at the ceiling. My fingers continue their combing and my own words play on repeat within my skull.

  
_Can I just stay here with you, forever?_

  
It's what I said, it's what I asked, it's what I want. But I haven't cleared the way for us. True to my nature, I've been chaotic and—whether Isak admits it or not—he must have doubts. And I want nothing more than to reassure and soothe those doubts, but I have to clean up the mess first. It's _me_ that has to pick up the cards, and I can't rest while they're scattered so haphazardly.

  
Despite the fact I know I'm doing the right thing now, as I ease Isak onto his back, I know it's the wrong time. I shouldn't be leaving him like this but my brain won't let me lay here; I don't deserve this yet.

  
He can't wake up alone, I decide, as I’m tucking the covers around him. It takes less than five minutes before I'm dressed and there's a pen in my hand. I draw a simple sketch on a scrap of paper from his shelf, something that I hope will make him smile remembering our conversations, and _know_ that I'll return. And—once I've tucked it safely under my pillow—I pick my way carefully to the door, hoping the tracks I've made don't spoil what we've found.

 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments, criticism and suggestions welcomed <3


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